London Rain
by gaylock
Summary: Four times Greg forgot his umbrella, and one time he didn't.
1. Chapter 1

Working Title: London Rain

Prompt: Four times Greg forgot his umbrella and one time he didn't

 **Chapter One**

 **AN/** Welcome to this story! This is the first Mystrade fic that I wrote which takes place in what is more-or-less canon universe. All my others tend to be AU's, so I got waaaay out of my comfort zone with this one. Also, it's actually complete! I know right? Totally unheard of with me! Truth is I wrote this in one night, from 8:00pm until 3:30am the next morning, so I basically just vomited up a glitterring rainbow of Mystrade feels and awesomeness, and had to write it. I honestly took one snack break the whole time, and that was it. Thankfully I had it beta'd, so any late-night/early-morning mistakes are probably gone. If not, comment and I will edit whatever it is:)

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It was raining. Pouring, actually. What had started out as a perfectly dry, clear morning in central London had turned into a very wet, horribly grey evening. And of course, of all the blasted days to forget one's umbrella and rain jacket, DI Greg Lestrade had to pick this one.

He had taken no more than three steps past the front doors of New Scotland Yard, and already his clothing was soaked through. Greg stood there, on the gloomy street corner with a scowl on his dripping face, and squinted into the fog and drizzle, searching for an oncoming taxi. He stood there for an impossibly long minute while getting wetter and wetter, before giving up and trudging onwards.

 _It's only a few blocks home, and anyways, I can't get much more wet than I already am,_ he thought. He glanced up at the streetlight ahead of him; despite the pouring rain and thick fog it still managed to give off a decent amount of light. The yellow-orange glow of the light illuminated the figure standing underneath it. Greg squinted harder, trying to make out any details. Street bum? Homeless person? Junkie? Normal bloke, on his way home from work? The figure was definitely that of a man, at least six feet tall and slim. Long, dark coat with the collar pulled up against the rain, although the rain didn't seem to be much of a problem, since the man was holding an umbrella...

While Greg was attempting to case the person out, the fifteen feet of space inbetween them filled with rain and darkness, he was consequently not paying attention to where he was stepping. And so it was, that a mere ten feet from the stranger Greg stopped walking to look down in despair at his shoes, which were currently submerged in mucky, freezing cold rainwater.

" _Oh no_ ," He groaned, lifting first one foot and then the other, inspecting the damage done. " _These were my best pair!_ "The leather was undoubtably damaged beyond repair, and _why the fuck had he chosen this day of all days to wear his good leather shoes_? He shrugged his frustration off. He was trying to make the best of a bad situation, and being upset wasn't going to fix this shitty day any quicker, nor would it make him any dryer. So instead of being desolate, Greg said, " _Fuck it_ ," and proceeded to splash loudly in all the puddles he came across.

He was a mere five feet from the stranger, when the loud clearing of a throat broke his concentration, and he stopped jumping to look up. The man was tall, impossibly tall, and wearing one of the most beautiful, elegant, _no doubt extremely expensive_ coats Greg had ever seen. His umbrella was sleek and dark, possibly black, possibly some other dark colour; also undoubtably expensive. Everything about him screamed old money and refinement. But it was the shadowed face of the stranger that caused Greg to stop in his tracks. A strong nose, a high cheekbone and a pale, freckled complexion were all that he could see clearly, but it was enough to rip the air out of his lungs and leave him reeling, if but for a moment.

"Uh, hullo." He said, eloquently. He snorted and stuffed his hands into his soaking coat pockets. _Yeah, Greg_ , he thought. _Real smooth_.

The man stared at him for a moment longer, before once again clearing his throat. "I'm so sorry to interrupt... _whatever_ it was that you were doing," He said, his voice clear and sharp, cutting through the rainfall like it was nothing. He wrinkled his nose slightly, before raising an eyebrow. "But you _are_ Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, are you not?"

Greg frowned and edged back the tiniest bit; not that many people outside of his work knew who he was, and certainly not every stranger he met on the streets. He nodded, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance a bit, so he might have a better chance of fighting the man off should he attack. "Yeah, that's me."

"I thought as much, but I find it's always best to be sure of such things," the man said with an insincere smile, before removing the black glove from his left hand. "I would like to speak to you about your...collaboration at work...with my brother." He offerred his hand to be shook as he spoke, and Greg glanced at his perfectly manicured nails and long, pale fingers.

Greg removed his hands from his soaking pockets, but held them at his sides. "Your brother?" He asked, going through the list of his male co-workers in his head and trying to guess at which one it might be.

"Ah yes," the stranger said, dropping his hand but not replacing the glove just yet. "My beloved brother. Thankfully _not_ one of your co-workers, though you do work alongside him, in a sense." He flashed another one of his insincere smiles. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, or whatever it is that he's calling himself these days." He held his hand out again, leaving it hanging in the space between them. "Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to make your aquaintance, Detective Inspector."

Greg's eyebrows rose, and he didn't even bother to blink the rain out of his eyes as he stared in shock at the man... _Mycroft Holmes_...in front of him. He had had no idea Sherlock Holmes, the annoying but absolutely genius ex-junkie had any family at all, never mind a brother who looked like he could very well be the King of England! If England had a King, that is. Greg shook himself out of his daze, and crossing the remaining distance between them, shook the man's hand firmly.

"The pleasure's mine, Mycroft. Though please, call me Greg." He grinned.

Mycroft Holmes adjusted his grip on the umbrella he carried, before slipping his bare hand back into its glove. "Detective Inspector," he said, ignoring Greg's request. "I would ask that you keep me updated on my brother; nothing you would feel too uncomfortable with sharing, of course. Just enough to let me know what his current...situation might be." His tone was sharper than before, and despite his words being a statement, there seemed to Greg to be an underlying question underneath.

"Well, I'll let you know how he's doing on the drug front, if that's what you're asking," he said, sticking his hands back into his pockets. "But I'm afraid I can't divulge just anything, no matter that you're his brother. Sherlock strikes me as a fairly private person." He tried to look apologetic, but kept his tone and words firm. He was not backing down on this, no matter what the striking englishman had to say or offer.

"Of course, I wouldn't expect you to." Mycroft's insincere smile turned just a little bit more sincere. "All information would be at your discretion; as long as I'm kept updated on his rehabilitation from someone close to him, I will be happy." He twirled his umbrella slightly in his hand, turning his head slightly to the right. The difference of angle caused the light from above to illuminate his entire face, throwing off the shadows that had baffled Greg only minutes before.

Greg nodded in acceptance, taking a moment to examine Mycroft in the soft orange light from the streetlamp. Along with the long, straight nose, the high cheekbones and freckled, pale skin, Mycroft sported perfectly arched eyebrows and dark auburn hair. At first glance, he really didn't look anything like Sherlock; but upon taking a closer look, Greg realised they did in fact share some traits. The high cheekbones were the same, though Sherlock's face was thinner which made his more prominent. The long neck and pale skin were a complete match, as was the graceful way they held themselves. And after a silent moment of examination, where Mycroft stood still and let Greg's eyes roam as they would, Greg concluded that Mycroft had clearly won the genetic lottery; his eyes were a clearer, more pure blue, his hair was the most beautiful colour, with just the slightest curl to it. His hands were longer and thinner, his smile more genuine, and his voice, though not as deep, was smooth and compelling. All in all, Greg could not deny he liked what he saw.

Which was worrisome indeed; afterall, this was Sherlock's brother! _Mycroft Holmes_!Clearly too rich, too beautiful and too classy for the likes of Gregory Lestrade. He sighed internally, before perking up a bit. _Just because I can't have him, didn't mean I can't enjoy the view, does it?_

Mycroft allowed the scrutinization for a few more moments, before asking, "Are you quite done?" in a bored tone, examining his gloved hand.

Greg flushed. "Sorry, it's just that, at first glance it's hard to see the resemblance." He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly; he could feel rain dripping down his back, but ignored it.

"Hmm." Mycroft studied him intensely, his piercing, icy gaze flickering back and forth over Greg, as if reading him like a page in a book. "And at second glance?"

Greg paused, choosing his words carefully before answering; it felt like what he said next was vitally important, and would dictate whether or not he would get to see Mycroft Holmes in the future. And he _desperately_ wanted to see him again. "Well, once you look closer, it's really quite obvious, isn't it? I don't know if I ever would have guessed it on my own, me being an average bloke and all. But to be fair, Sherlock really doesn't ever mention you, or any other family for that matter. Mostly just talks about blood consistancy and goes on about the worlds idiocy." He smiled.

Mycroft's lips quirked slightly, though whether it was upwards or downwards, Greg couldn't tell. "Yes, I'm afraid he's never gone out of his way to acknowledge me."

Greg chuckled and shuffled forwards slightly. He tilted his head upwards a bit. "Yeah, but can you really blame him? Not everyone can win the genetic lottery and turn out stunning, and he's obviously still peeved it wasn't him." The words slipped out, and the moment they left his lips he wished he could take them back. He spluttered, mortified. " _Oh my god_ - _I am so sorry_ , that - that was..."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking again. "Flirtatious? Inappropriate? Forward?" His voice didn't betray any surprise or displeasure, only amusement. His face was carefully blank, the only outward sign of his amusement the slight upward turn of his lips.

"All of the above." Greg covered his burning face with his hands, the blush spreading down his neck. "God, I'm so sorry." He grimaced, before he lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

To his complete surprise, Mycroft only chuckled, shaking his head slowly as his eyes crinkled up in genuine mirth. "So you've said." He sighed and smiled slightly. "This has been wonderfully illuminating. I look forwards to hearing from you in the future." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card with his name and a phone number printed on it in black ink. "You may reach me at this number at any time." He handed it to Greg, who, not wanting to ruin it by placing it in his soaking wet pocket, had to unbutton his coat and slide it into the breast pocket on the nice and dry inside of his suit jacket.

"Thanks," He said, buttoning his coat back up and flashing Mycroft a quick smile.

Mycroft nodded and stepped towards the curb. "Until next time, Detective Inspector." He said, as a black car slid up beside him and the door opened. He slid in and closed his umbrella in one smooth movement, before closing the door. Greg watched as the dark car drove down the foggy, wet London street, dissapearing into the night. He stood there long after he could no longer see its tail-lights shinging through the darkness, a bemused look upon his face.

 _Well_ , he thought as he finally turned away from the street and continued on his way home. _Next time had better be bloody soon_.

 **Mara xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 **AN/** First of all: Mycroft smokes like a dapper boss. Second of all, Greg is so into Mycroft, it's not even funny. Although to be fair, Mycroft is pretty cute. Also, the ending of this chapter is blessed, and I know it may be a little, teeny-weeny bit ridiculous, but it's also adorable and perfect and absolutely what would happen. Let's just say that you're gonna love it (or, at least I hope so) and leave it at that:)

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The second time Greg was caught in the rain without an umbrella, he was overseeing Sherlock at a crime scene. He had just stepped out of the office building where the body was laying, spread eagled on the floor, for a cigarette. He'd been trying to quit for months now, but every time he got close to succeeding, Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes breezed back into his world, all long limbs and ridiculous wealth as he requested, bargained and manipulated Greg into doing what he wanted him to do.

Take today for example; it was Greg's day off. Or at least it _had_ been, before Mycroft Holmes had texted to inform him that he was needed as a liason between Sherlock Holmes and New Scotland Yard. _None of the other DI's would work with the self proclaimed Consulting Detective_ , Mycroft had said. So _would he please make his way to this place, at this time?_

Greg snorted and took a deep drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible, his eyes closed and face tilted towards the sky. _Fuck you, Mycroft_ , he thought darkly, his mouth opening to let out a stream of smoke.

That was when it began to rain. Nothing heavy, nothing cold; just a light drizzle. Still, it was enough of an annoyance that Greg took only one more drag of his cigarette, planning on putting it out to go back inside, when a non-descript black car pulled up and an immaculately dressed woman got out. She was holding her phone in one hand as she walked around the car to the backseat door closest to Greg, and didn't even glance at him as she opened the door and stepped back. Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the car, his umbrella open above him in order to keep his suit completely dry and in perfect condition.

Greg huffed and lit another cigarette. "It was _supposed_ to be my day off." He said by way of greeting, sucking in the toxic smoke of the cigarette like his life depended on it. He watched as Mycroft spoke quietly to the woman - _his assistant, probably, the self important prat_ \- before Mycroft turned and walked towards where Greg was standing in the drizzle. The woman got back into the car, her eyes never having left her phone, and it drove off. Greg waited until Mycroft was only a foot away, before letting the smoke out in one long stream, blowing it right into Mycroft's face.

Mycroft did nothing, just stood there until the smoke dissipated, before turning his eyes to Greg's. Greg blinked. _Did Mycroft's eyes look apologetic, or was it just a trick of the light?_

"I know, Detective Inspector, and I wouldn't have asked you here were it not pertinent."

"That doesn't sound like an apology to me." He said gruffly, his cigarette still between his lips.

Mycroft sighed and held his umbrella up slightly more, so that its edge covered Greg from the worst of the drizzle. Greg quirked an eyebrow in question, but Mycroft only looked on steadily, giving nothing away.

Greg rolled his eyes and decided it was the Holmesian version of an apology. "Okay. Thanks." He tapped the ash off of his smoke and shuffled his feet. "Do you...I mean, do you smoke?" He asked, not wanting to sound like an idiot and not knowing what else to say. He still managed to sound like a simpleton, but he figured Mycroft was used to average people like him blundering around in conversation. It certainly happened in _their_ conversations often enough.

"Yes, much to Mummy's displeasure. I've tried to quit, but never can seem to."

Greg laughed. "Yeah, same here. Life's just too stressful, I guess." He shrugged before offering a cigarette up to Mycroft.

Mycroft declined, but said, "I would not, however, say no to your lighter." He pulled a very fancy, very silver cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket and removed a cigarette from it, before putting it back. He took up the proffered lighter and lit his smoke, inhaling steadily until the tip burned bright orange-red. He handed the lighter back to Greg with a nod of thanks and closed his eyes for a moment, to enjoy the much needed nicotine rush.

Greg's eyes were fixated on Mycroft as he inhaled; the tightening of his throat, the flush on his cheeks, the way his long fingers curled around the cigarette like it was a precious, fragile anchor to sanity. The shape of his lips as he let the smoke out, curling in soft circles and swirls up above his head. Greg swallowed heavily and turned away to get his burning hot face, as well as other parts of his body under control. Thankfully Mycroft's eyes were still closed, because there was no way he could hide anything from those piercing blue eyes.

They stood out there in the rain, smoking silently for a few long minutes. Mycroft looked content with the silence, but Greg, who was staring subtlely at the other man as he smoked, could feel himself getting more and more uncomfortable. The silence felt suffocating, but at the same time he knew that whatever came out of his mouth would be awkward and undoubtably cringe worthy. He stood there in silence for a few minutes longer, before cracking.

Just as he was opening his mouth to say _something_ , _god, anything to break this godawful silence and distract me from his bloody pornographic smoking,_ the rain began to hurtle down in a much heavier downpour. Mycroft took one last drag of his cigarette, before dropping it onto the ground and stepping on it lightly with his perfectly shined shoes.

"Well, this weather is deplorable, and not at all condusive to an outdoor conversation. If you're finished, I suggest we go inside." He held the umbrella aloft, moving it's handle to the other hand so that it was placed between their bodies, to better cover both of their heads and clothing. Greg dropped his cigarette and stepped on it as they walked towards the office building where the crime scene was located.

They stepped into the lobby, and Mycroft shook off his umbrella before closing it. He draped it over his arm and gestured for Greg to lead the way. Greg rolled his eyes, because _of course Mycroft knew where the bloody crime scene was, so why did he have to lead the way,_ but nevertheless stepped ahead and pushed through the next set of doors to reveal his forensics team and Sherlock. They were busy squabbling amongst each other like little children, and he sighed. He looked at Mycroft apologetically before stepping forwards to yell, "Oi! Children! Stop sqaubbling and get to work." His forensics team scowled but did as he said. Sherlock, on the other hand, took one glance at him, slid his eyes behind him to look at Mycroft, and made a face before turning away.

"I would apologize for my brother, but I'm sure I'd be wasting my breath." Mycroft said quietly, coming to stand next to him. Greg smiled and glanced at him for a second out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, it's fine." He said, before saying a little more loudly, "Sherlock! Come tell me what you've got so far." He waited for the Consulting Detective to huff and roll his eyes, before he sauntered towards the duo with a disdainful look upon his face.

"Why is he here?" He asked, pointing rudely at his brother. When Greg ignored him, he turned towards Mycroft. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I came to apologize to the Detective Inspector," he said smoothly, causing Greg to snort. Mycroft ignored him and continued. "For interrupting his day off with the request to come here and chaperone you." He adjusted his umbrella.

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. "I _don't_ need a chaperone."

Greg let out a loud bark of laughter at that. "Are you sure about that?" He asked, a wide grin on his face. "Because I was gone for what, ten minutes? And I come back here to you all yelling and shouting at each other. Now, I'm no genius, but I'm prettysure that means you need a chaperone." He heard Mycroft stifle a snort from beside him and grinned wider.

Sherlock turned around and flapped his hand in the air. "Whatever. It was the janitor. Obvious really, I don't know why you needed my help." He started to walk away, his long coat swishing behind him.

"I didn't need your help, Sherlock! It was my _day off_ , incase you didn't remember; you're the one who sauntered in without permission!" Greg's shout was ignored by the detective, and he and Mycroft watched Sherlock slam the door shut behind him. "Dramatic bugger, isn't he." Greg muttered.

Mycroft cleared his throat, a small smile on his normally blank face. "Indeed."

Greg huffed out a frustrated breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair in agitation. "He didn't even bother explaining anything! What am I supposed to do with 'It was the janitor, obvious really'?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly in the direction of his forensics team. Greg laughed and shook his head. "They're useless, to be honest." He sighed.

Mycroft gazed at him speculatively for a moment, before pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time.

Greg watched him, chewing on his lip. "Hafta go?" He asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Mycroft shook his head and tucked the watch back into his waistcoat. "No, not quite yet. I was actually going to offer to have a look for you, see what details and proof I can find." His blue eyes scanned the crime scene from where they stood as he spoke.

Greg jolted a bit, but nodded vigorously. "Really? That would be fantastic. Thank you, Mycroft." He said with a smile.

Mycroft only nodded once, before he handed Greg his umbrella and stepped towards the womans body on the floor. Greg looked down at the umbrella in his hands; as far as he knew, Mycroft never went anywhere without it. It was practically attatched to the man, and he'd certainly never seen anyone else touch it, not even Sherlock. He stroked over the smooth ivory handle, and traced the engraved initials with his pinky finger. MH. He felt like he'd been offered a great honour, a huge show of faith; almost as if Mycroft had handed him a part of himself. In a way he had, and Greg was not only touched, he understood.

This was Mycroft's way of saying sorry.

Greg smiled widely as he cradled the umbrella like it was a precious child, and watched Mycroft as he strolled around the crime scene, taking everything in with his ice-blue eyes. It was barely three minutes later that he was walking back over to Greg, small notebook in his hands which he handed over to a forensic scientist before taking the umbrella back with a smile and a nod.

"I've written it all down, your forensics team should be able to get what they need now." He looked down as his phone buzzed with a text and smiled before glancing back at Greg. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm afraid I must be leaving."

Greg smiled back and gestured towards the doors. "Of course. I'll walk you out." The walked back outside, the sky now clear and the rain nothing but puddles on the ground. As they walked over to the curb to await the inevitable black goverment sancitoned vehicle, Greg began to jump in the puddles they passed, splashing a bit just for the fun of it.

Mycroft watched him with a strange look on his face. "What are you doing?"

Greg looked up. "Splashing. In puddles." He said, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft's furrowed his eyebrows. "Why on earth would you..." He trailed off.

"Cause it's fun!" Greg said, laughing as he jumped into a large puddle and splashed rain water as high as his knees, turning both their trouser legs wet. He grinned at Mycroft's horrified look. "Oops!" He said innocently. Then he did it again.

" _Gregory!_ " Mycroft said, sounding scandalized. He stared down at his trousers in horror.

Greg looked chagrined for a moment. He shuffled out of the puddle, his shoulders slumped slightly forwards. "Sorry," he mumbled. He was about to turn around, when all of a sudden he heard a splash and the back of his legs were soaking wet. He whirled around.

" _What the_ -," His mouth hung open.

Mycroft stood next to a very deep puddle, and examined his nails innocently. He glanced around himself after a moment, as if looking for the culprit, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _who could have done that?_

Greg smirked and took a step back. "Oh, this is _so_ war." He took a running leap and kicked water as high as he could, trying to get as much of Mycroft soaked as he could. Mycroft, never one to back down from a challenge, retaliated immediately, soaking Greg's suit jacket as well as the front of his pants. This went on for quite some time, neither one of them noticing when the dark car pulled up. It wasn't until the same woman stepped out and shut the door with a loud bang that Greg and Mycroft looked up from what they were doing. The woman didn't even bother glancing at them, just pointed towards the car before opening the door and sliding back in.

Mycroft sighed and straightened his jacket, though it was absolutely pointless at that point; it was soaking wet, as was his waistcoat, his trousers, and even his tie. Greg wasn't fairing any better, his entire outfit just as soaked as Mycrofts was.

"Well, I'm afraid I must take my leave. It's been a pleasure, Gregory." He said, glancing down at his incredibly wet suit with a wrinkled nose. A pressed and folded suit was held out the car door by the woman inside, and Mycroft look relieved.

Greg chuckled. "I had fun, too. And I totally won. Just saying." He smirked at Mycroft as the man turned to leave.

The taller man turned back to say, "I think not. I was _clearly_ the winner of this war." He straightened his tie haughtily and stepped towards the open car door.

Greg smiled softly at his retreating back, before calling out, "And Mycroft?" The man was about to close the door, but paused. Greg gestured vaguely around, before huffing out a breath. "Apology accepted." He smiled and looked down.

Mycroft closed the door and looked out the open window, a small smile gracing his features as well. "Until next time, Gregory." And with that, he was gone.

Greg smiled to himself as he made his way soaking wet back into the office building to see about a change of clothes. It wasn't until later that night while he was eating takeout curry from the container on his couch at home, that he realised Mycroft had called him Gregory instead of Detective Inspector for the first time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 **AN/** This chapter is the next meeting between Mycroft and Greg. It's obviously a few weeks after, since Mycroft was on a trip in Russia for...well, that's classified, isn't it? Anyways, just wanted to clarify that there are no unwritten meetings in between the second chapter and this one. I felt like I needed to say this, because there were obviously unwritten meetings between the first chapter and the second chapter.

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Because it's London, the rain over the next few weeks was nearly constant. Apparently even the criminals of London were reluctant to do their dirty deeds in the torrential downpour, because work was slow. Greg was left doing paperwork that he'd let pile up, and he was feeling antsy and impatient when he finished up for the day on Thursday evening. He leaned back in his chair, cracking his neck and stretching his arms up above his head to try and release some of the tension in his neck and back from being hunched over for so many hours.

He closed his tired eyes for a moment, just to rest them, and found himself being shaken awake by his Sally Donovan some undefined time later.

"Go home, sir. It's late, and you finished the paperwork. Here, let me call you a cab." She helped him up, steadying him as he swayed tiredly on his feet, before dialing the taxi company and handing him his coat.

"Thanks, Sally." He mumbled, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders as he stepped outside and into the rain.

"Just get home safe and get some sleep, sir." She said, before closing the doors and retreating back to her desk inside.

Inside, where it wasn't bloody pouring. Greg wiped the water out of his eyes and peered at the street, looking for the cab. He tried to lean back against his work building, hoping the tiny awning above the front doorway would provide some protection against the elements, but no such luck. He sighed and hunched his shoulders; he could really use an umbrella right about now. _It seems forgetting my umbrella is becoming a common occurance_ , Greg thought sarcastically. _Wonderful._

Thinking about umbrellas led him to thoughts of a specific umbrella, with a fancy ivory handle and engraved initials. And thinking about _that_ particular umbrella inevitably led him to thoughts of the owner. Greg hadn't heard from Mycroft since the Puddle War (at least that's what he was calling it in his head), and he was beginning to miss him and his unique style and presence. It had been nearly a month since that day, and Greg was debating whether or not he should send him a text, when his cab pulled up.

"Finally," he muttered under his breath, stepping forwards and slipping into the back seat. His coat was already very wet, but thankfully his clothing underneath was still fairly dry. He shut the door behind him and got comfortable.

"Where to, mate?" The cabbies gruff voice asked as the cab began to roll forwards. Greg told him his address, before leaning back and shutting his eyes. God, he was so tired. He hadn't even been out in the field all week, but their was just something about paperwork that turned his mind to jelly and made him an exhausted mess. When the cab came to a stop, he fumbled in his coat pocket for some cash, paid the driver and got out. He stood there in the rain for a minute, eyes closed and face tilted up towards the sky. The rain was refreshing, and helped to wake him up a little bit. After about three minutes, he wiped his face off and removed the keys to his flat from his pocket, before placing them in the keyhole. He was about to turn them and unlock the door, when he heard the sound of a car door closing and then feet shuffling up behind him. He whirled around, suddenly intensely alert, arm coming up as if to protect himself. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest as he took in his would-be-attacker.

"...Mycroft?"

The man shuffled closer, ever present umbrella open above his head. "Hello, Gregory." He cleared his throat and glanced behind at him at the idling car before turning back. "I just came by to inform you that I've returned."

"...Returned?"

Mycroft cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'd been in Russia for...work related issues...until just thirty minutes ago. I had Anthea drive me straight here once I...I got back." He swayed slightly on his feet, and Greg scrunched his face up in tired confusion. The adrenaline was wearing off now that he knew there was no threat, and he could feel the exhaustion more than ever before.

That didn't stop him from noticing how tired Mycroft sounded, or how he was dead on his feet, unable to stand straight without swaying. He frowned and stepped forwards, trying to get a closer look at the other man.

"Mycroft, are you alright?"

"Oh yes, just fine...just fine, Gregory." Mycroft smiled at him, but Greg wasn't fooled.

"Mycroft, you're exhausted! You should go home and sleep." He tried to reason with the man, but Mycroft was having none of it.

"No! No, I cannot go home just yet...though, sleep does sound _marvelous_...but no, there is something I must say." He straightened up as much as he could, shifting on his feet in order to find a more steady position. "Gregory, I felt it was imperative I told you...that I told you..." He shuffled once again, this time in embarrassment.

Greg was suddenly grateful that he had forgotten his umbrella, because it gave him the perfect excuse to step closer to Mycroft, under the pretense of staying out of the rain. "Yes? That you told me what?" He asked in a hushed voice, looking up at the taller man in front of him.

Mycroft looked at him through half-closed eyes and smiled softly. "That I missed you desperately while away. A month is entirely too long, Gregory." He tilted slightly forwards, before rocking backwards on his heels.

Greg swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in the back of his throat. "I missed you too, Mycroft." He said, reaching out a hand to help steady the swaying man. Suddenly Mycroft was swaying too far forwards, and as Greg's arm came up to support him, Mycroft's arms came up around Greg's body and held him tightly. Greg stiffened in surprise, before relaxing into the impromtu hug, and raised his other arm in order to wrap it around Mycroft's waist alongside the other one.

They sat like that for a long minute, Greg's mind rushing and racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess. Mycroft rested his face against Greg's neck and breathed him in, before letting go and rocking backwards slightly. Their eyes met as they both took a slight step backwards, and Greg couldn't help the soft, adoring smile that escaped. "Go home and get some sleep, Mycroft. Call me when you wake up, alright?" He reached out one last time to squeeze Mycroft's hand, before stepping back and gesturing towards the car a few feet away.

Mycroft nodded and smiled back at him, a quiet, "Thank you, Gregory. I will," all he said before turning to step back into the safety of the black car. Greg watched it drive away into the night, just like he had after their first meeting. _So much has changed since then_ , he thought as he unlocked his front door and walked inside. _Who knew that awkward meeting would lead to him falling in love?_ Greg smiled and locked the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

 **AN/** Warning: near-death experience, a LOT of emotional distress, some very sad, heart-wrenching moments, and a wretched cliffhanger.

On the plus side, we finally get to see Sherlock again (!) and watch his character develop a bit (or a lot) emotionally and psychologically, which is pretty awesome.

 **o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o**

The fourth and absolute last time Greg forgot his umbrella, he was chasing after Sherlock on one of the detective's impromtu criminal chases. It was ultimately the forgotten umbrella, which got him hospitalized.

His umbrella was bright yellow, made so that other people, both on the road and the walkways would see him coming, even in the thickest rain or fog. Because he had forgotten his umbrella, the pedestrians and drivers couldn't see him as he raced after Sherlock who was racing after a criminal. Greg did his best, but ultimately couldn't dodge the inevitable; just as he was turning a street corner, a taxi came out of nowhere. It tried to skid to a halt, and Greg looked up to see it as it came hurtling towards him. He could see Sherlock and the criminal disappearing around the corner, but his attention was on the flourescent lights blinding him.

The last thing he heard before everything went black was the high pitched squeal of tires attempting to break quickly on wet cement.

Greg woke up slowly to the sound of constant, steady beeping. His eyes wouldn't open, but it didn't matter; he was pretty sure he knew where he was. He'd spent enough time recuperating and being stitched up in hospital to know the sound of one. He crushed the impulse to try and sit up, taking time to catalogue his injuries, his aches and pains.

Suddenly, he could hear sounds outside of the steady beeping that was his heart on the heart monitor. They sounded like voices, familiar voices. They were loud and angry, and Greg concentrated to try and figure out, with his sleep, drug addled brain, what they were saying.

"But it's not my fault! The cabbie came completely out of nowhere!" Loud and Frustrated said.

"If you hadn't been gallivanting off like some sort of psuedo-hero, Gregory wouldn't have had to chase you!" That was Loud and Angry, and they were apparently talking about him.

"He didn't _have_ to chase me! I am perfectly capable of catching a-,"

"HE WAS PROTECTING YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL IDIOT AND YOU NEARLY GOT HIM KILLED!"

It clicked; Mycroft. Mycroft and Sherlock, they were arguing. Loudly and angrily.

About him.

 _About him?_

Greg tried to speak, to tell them to stop, tell them to _shut up_. He managed a weak groan, but his throat hurt like hell and his head began to pound, oh my god his _head_ , and everything hurt all of a sudden, _everything hurt_ -

"Gregory? Gregory! He's waking up, _oh god_ , _Gregory_." Mycroft was suddenly by his side, his voice frantic and close. He sounded wrecked, and Greg wondered what he looked like, if he looked bloody and bruised and battered, if he was covered in white bandages like some kind of mummy. He still couldn't open his eyes, but he lifted a hand weakly and managed to croak out, "Water."

He heard the sound of water being poured into a cup before he'd even finished getting the word out, and then a gentle hand was holding a cup up to his lips and tilting it slowly, letting him take small sips to sooth his throat. He felt the brush of fingertips across his forehead and he leaned into the gesture as much as he could.

When he had drank his fill, Greg mumbled his thanks.

"Of course, Gregory. Of course." Mycroft's soft voice and gentle hands soothed him, and soon Greg began to fall back to sleep.

 **o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o**

When Greg woke up the next time, he was able to open his eyes. Which he was incredibly thankful for, because the sight that greeted him was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, and he never wanted to forget it.

Mycroft was sitting in the chair beside his bed, most of his upper body resting on the hospital bed next to Greg's legs. His face was smooshed against the sheets, hair ruffled and curling more than usual. he had one hand resting against Greg's right knee, and the other wrapped tightly around Greg's left hand.

The other chair was occupied by Sherlock, who was curled up and wrapped in a bright orange shock blanket, his feet tucked up underneath him. Greg suspected the blanket was supposed to be his, and the thought made him snort. Typical Sherlock.

But the fact that both of them were there, had in fact been there for what appeared to be many hours, possibly even days; that warmed Greg's heart. Sherlock was a good lad, he knew, but sometimes it was painfully hard to see. And Mycroft... _well_. Mycroft was Mycroft. He was untouchable, poised and perfect. He was cold, the 'Ice Man' they called him, but Greg? Well, Greg had never known him to be anything but considerate, honest. And yes, he was poised, and my _god_ was he perfect; but Greg knew that he was also one of the warmest, most caring, most _protective_ people he had ever had the honour of calling a friend.

And of course there was the added bonus of him being absolutely and hopelessly in love with the man, but that was besides the point. Just being able to see Mycroft without any masks on was both the most amazing and most terrifying thing ever. It meant that he trusted Greg, truly trusted him. It meant that he cared more about Greg than about his perfect image. It meant there was the potential for more there, just waiting to be acted upon.

And that was terrifying. He knew that the moment he told Mycroft how he felt for him, there would be no going back; Mycroft would either accept it, or he would close himself back up. It could either be perfect, or too much too soon. _The only problem is_ , Greg thought sadly, _I'll have no idea which it is until I do it._

Greg's eyes swivelled back towards Mycroft as he felt the man begin to wake up. He smiled fondly at the twitching nose and fluttering eyelashes. Mycroft pulled himself upright and rubbed his eyes blearily. "Hullo, Gregory." He looked down, his face a strange mixture of sadness and joy.

Greg smiled up at him. "Hi," he said softly, sure that all of his soppy feelings were displayed on his face like an open book. "How long have you been here?"

Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Since you arrived in hospital."

Greg frowned at that non-answer, even as a warmth spread through him. "And how long have I been in hospital?"

Mycroft avoided his gaze, staring instead at the sheets he had gripped in his fist.

Greg sighed and moved his hand to wrap it around Mycroft's. "Myc, how long?"

Mycroft's stoic face crumbled and he slotted his fingers through Greg's. "One week, four days, seven hours and twenty-three minutes." He said quietly. "You were in surgery for much of the first week, and the doctors said there were no gaurantees that you would...that you-," he pressed his lips together and shook his head sharply.

"Oh, Mycroft- I'm so sorry, oh my god, I'm so-," Greg felt himself tearing up, and his hand gripped Mycroft's more firmly.

Mycroft looked at him sharply, his eyes which had been filled with despair only a moment before now filled with anger. "Don't you dare apologize, Gregory! _Don't you dare try and apologize for this_." His voice was biting, but he had yet to remove his hand from Greg's grip, so Greg wasn't too upset.

"Mycroft, I know I messed up, but I just want to tell you that it's not Sherlock's fault, okay? I chose to go after him, and that's on me, not him." He pleaded with him. "Don't blame your brother for my mistake."

Mycroft ripped his hand from Greg's grip and stood up. He was shaking, whether from anger or some other emotion Greg wasn't sure. " _Gregory Lestrade,_ " he said, his voice deadly quiet and sharp, like ice and darkness. "Of course it's on you. It's on both of you, and don't you _dare_ think I don't blame the both of you for this! How _dare you_ , when _there was no gaurantees_!" Mycroft's voice rose gradually, becoming louder with each word. "You are so absolutely _selfish_ , risking yourself like that when there are people out there who care about you, who _need_ you, I can't-," he sucked in a breath and shook his head, stepping backwards away from the hospital cot, and away from Greg.

Greg tried to scramble up into a sitting position, tried to reach out for Mycroft, but the pain nearly made him blackout. "Mycroft, please, I-,"

"No." Mycroft's voice was cold and hard and empty; it was like nothing Greg had ever heard, and it scared him. He could feel the warmth that he had just been feeling slipping away, could feel that future he so desperately wanted with this man disappearing into that emptiness, into that void. "Stop. There is nothing you could ever say to me that would make me forgive you." He took another step towards the door.

Sherlock spoke up from his chair. "Mycroft, don't-,"

Mycroft cut him off as he stepped out of the door, his face blank and his eyes empty voids, like the blank eyes of a robot. "Either of you." And with that he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

 **AN/** Okay, so this IS THE LAST CHAPTER! HOORAY! Anyways, this chapter starts off exactly where the other one ended. Hopefully I didn't kill any readers off with that _horrible_ (wonderful) cliffhanger. Honestly, I can't say I'm sorry for it - it's the sadness and angst that makes this story as good as it is. Without all the emotions and wild anger, there would be no emotional development. Also, be excited! We finally get to see the Mystrade kiss! AHHHHH (^_^)

 **o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o**

Greg gasped for breath, his vision swimming black for a moment, before hands were there helping him lay back down against the pillows. "Thanks," he gasped out, trying to catch his breath enough to figure out what the hell just happened and how to fix it.

"Lestrade, my brother he...he didn't mean what he said, and I know-,"

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. I am so fucking sorry that I got you into this mess, and I don't know how you'll ever forgive me, but I want you to know that I will do anything, _anything_ , to-,"

Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth, albeit gently. "Lestrade," he said sharply. "None of this is your fault. The blame is mine, and I accept it. My brother was right in that regard; had you not been chasing after me in my idiotic attempt to do _your_ job, you would never have gotten hurt. It is my place to apologize," Sherlock swallowed and looked down.

Greg's eyes were wide.

"I am sorry." It was whispered, and Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes, but Greg was astounded. When Sherlock removed his hand from over Greg's mouth, Greg cleared his throat and tried to blink away his tears.

"Uh, thank you, Sherlock. Thank you so much. But I want you to know that in no way do I blame you, alright? I am an adult, capable of making my own decisions and taking responsibility for them," he swallowed thickly and went on. "If the blame is anyones, it should be mine; but I honestly don't think it's anyones fault. Sometimes bad things happen that we can't stop, and that's all there is to it."

Sherlock continued to stare at the sheets on the bed, his eyes blinking rapidly, before he stood up and nodded. "Thank you. You are a good man, and this should not have happened to you. It isn't fair." He looked at Greg with distress, his face stoic but his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Greg was overjoyed to see such raw emotion in the self-proclaimed sociopath as well as dismayed to see him so upset. "Hey, it's okay. Life isn't fair."

"Neither was Mycroft. He said he blames you, as well as me; the truth is he blames himself. He thinks it's his duty to protect those closest to him, thinks anytime one of us gets hurt that it's somehow _his_ fault, his failure. Don't take what he said to heart. He just needs some time to re-evaluate." Sherlock stepped towards the door and glanced through. "I should go after him," he said, a note of worry in his voice. "I will be back, though." He left swiftly, the door swinging behind him.

Greg watched him leave and leaned back on his pillows, his eyes closed and his overworked body completely exhausted. He fell asleep quickly, despite his emotional turmoil; he blamed the drugs.

What seemed to be hours later, Greg woke up to a soft voice whispering in his ear.

"I know what I said to you, and I am so sorry Gregory. You didn't deserve that, and I will never be able fix this. I know you think I blame you, you and Sherlock, but you have to know that's not true." Greg kept his eyes closed as he listened, knowing that Mycroft would stop immediately if he thought Greg could hear him.

"It's no excuse, but I only said those things because it's my fault, and I couldn't deal with the guilt. Can't deal with it still, knowing I'm the reason you're in here, I'm the reason you almost...almost didn't mak-," He let out a choked off sob before continuing. "It would be so easy to blame this all on the rain, on the cabbie, on you or Sherlock, but it's my fault. I'm supposed to protect you, but I didn't, I failed. Gregory, I am sorry that I've failed you, so sorry that I couldn't protect you like I was supposed to. I know I'm not worth you, I never was; you are so kind and caring and wonderful, and what am I?"

Greg's heart ached as he listened to Mycroft speak, listened to the insecurities and secrets of a man who the world thought made of ice, listened to him lay his heart bare. Greg had never loved him more than in that very moment, but he knew that he couldn't say anything now or all would be lost.

Mycroft went on. "I am nothing, I am cold and thoughtless and manipulative. I'm everything bad and I will ruin you if you give me the chance. I can't do that to you, Gregory. Not to you, who mean so much. Which is why I'm leaving, tonight, for Russia. I will stay there for as long as it takes these feelings I have for you to fall apart; only then will you be safe. And that's all I want, Gregory." Greg felt a warm hand run lightly through his hair, and he suppressed a sigh. Anyone who had ever felt that warmth on their skin would know that Mycroft was not the cold, unloving robot the world thought him to be.

"Until next time, Gregory," he said even more quietly, before Greg heard the sound of retreating footsteps and he drifted back into unconsciousness.

 **o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o**

A week, three hours and fourty-two minutes later, Greg was released from the hospital with instructions to take it easy for the next week or so. His ribs were still tender in spots, and there would be a very large, very permanent scar running from mid thigh to his hip, but other than that he was good as new. He was still on some pretty heavy painkillers, but was supposed to be slowly taking himself off of them over the next five days.

He still had the cast on his wrist, but only because Sally, Philip and Dimmock had all insisted on him bringing it in to work, so they could write and draw on it before he got it removed. When he showed up at New Scotland Yard, they were all crowded around his desk, which was overflowing with flowers and cards and small gifts, even a couple of balloons. He grinned and walked slowly towards them. "Hey, what's all this?" he asked, gesturing with the cast to the plethora of items surrounding his work area and cluttering his office.

Sally grinned and bounced a bit on her feet. "Most of it's from us and the Yard, but I think some of it's from civilians who heard or saw what happened, and this card and balloon here are from the cabbie." She pointed to a large balloon and large card.

He shook his head and laughed. "Gee, aren't I popular all of a sudden. If I'd known that all it took was nearly dying, why, I'd have done it ages ago!" He grinned at his teammates as they all laughed. He pulled his wrist around and placed it on the desk. "So, who's first?"

A chorus of "Me!"'s filled the room, and Greg's grin widened. _It's good to be back._

A few day's later, after he had weaned himself off of the medication and had the cast removed, Greg was asked to come help consult on a case at the Yard. He still wasn't able to go back to work yet, actually had the next three weeks off, possibly longer if the doctors weren't satisfied with how his ribs were healing. But when the call came in that he should show up and help walk the trainees and forensics team through the newest case, he agreed immediately. He knew that despite needing the time to heal, he would drive himself crazy long before he was cleared to go back to work; if consulting and helping newbies out were the only things he could do, at least it was something.

At least it wasn't sitting on the couch all day and night, popping pills and watching terrible day-time telly while trying not to think about Mycroft. At least it wasn't him, working up the courage to write out a text to Mycroft, only to delete it before pressing send.

And so it was, that on that cloudy, foggy, rainy tuesday morning, Greg left his flat with his coat on over one of his suits, his keys and phone in his pocket and his umbrella in his hand. After all, not having his umbrella with him was what put him in this place; there was no way he was ever going to make that mistake again. He stepped out into the rain, his bright yellow umbrella open over his head, and got into the police vehicle that was waiting him outside his flat. Sally grinned back at him as she drove away to the scene of the crime. She pulled up to the yellow caution tape barriers the agents had put up, before getting out and holding the tape up so Greg could walk beneath it. He smiled his thanks and held his umbrella open above both of their heads as they made their way towards the group of people standing in the center of the parkinglot.

When they got there, Greg was told to wait on one of the benches or something; when they needed him, they would send someone to fetch him. He didn't mind in the least, he was just happy to be back in some way, even if it was small and insignificant. Just the smell and feel of a crime scene brought back the rush he felt everytime he worked a case, and he smiled widely as he made his way to the outskirts of the parkinglot. The rain was only getting heavier, the fog thicker, as time wore on, but not even that could stop his good mood. Especially not now, when he had finally remembered to bring his blasted umbrella.

The sound of wet footsteps came from behind him, and he turned around expecting to see Sally or Philip or some other officer come to fetch him. Instead he saw Mycroft, running full speed through the pouring rain, his suit drenched and his hair dripping in his eyes, with absolutely no umbrella in his hand or above his head. Greg's eyes shot open and his eyebrows nearly rose into his hairline (or so it seemed) as he watched the clearly exhausted, winded, soaking wet politician come to a stop in front of him.

Mycroft panted for air, trying to catch his breath, before he pushed his hair out of his eyes and stared in wonder at Greg, like he was some sort of beautiful statue, or a desert mirage come true. Greg saw him and felt his heart soar; _This is my chance_ , he thought. _This is my chance to tell him how I feel_.

He took a deep breath. "Mycroft, I-,"

He was cut off by Mycroft saying, "Gregory, I am so sorry, I am so sorry, oh god, how will you ever forgive me?" He wailed, wringing his hands. He was clearly crying, though which drops were tears and which were rain was impossible to tell.

Greg shook his head and pulled Mycroft's restless hands into his own. "Mycroft, there's nothing-,"

He wrenched his hands frim Greg's grip and tore at his sopping auburn hair. "I went to Russia, to _forget_ about you because all I can ever do is hurt you and fail you, but I _can't forget about you, Gregory, the rain won't let me, it's everywhere and I don't know what to do!_ I know you don't feel the same, but it doesn't matter, _I don't care anymore, because I need you!_ I...I love you, Gregory. And I just..." He was hyperventillating, his hands no longer pulling at his hair; instead they were shaking at his sides, seemingly vibrating with pent up emotion.

Greg stepped forwards and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's shaking body, not caring that he was getting wet and not caring that Mycroft was protesting, saying that he would taint him, ruin him, hurt him. Greg only held him tighter, and buried his face in Mycroft's chilled skin, blowing warm air onto it to warm him up. Slowly, Mycroft stopped shaking, his arms coming up around Greg's warm and dry body gently, never for a minute forgetting how fragile Greg still was.

"...Gregory? Why...?" he asked in a whisper, as if speaking any louder would break some sort of spell and cause it all to disappear. As if Greg were a true desert mirage, only there to be looked at and admired, but when touched, it crumbled to dust and sand.

Greg hugged him more tightly than ever before, whispering just as quietly in Mycroft's ear, "Because I love you." He said it with such conviction, like it was the only truth in the universe that mattered. Like it was so obvious, a statement of fact equal to the rain is wet and the sun rises in the east. And for Greg it was; it was the only truth that mattered in that moment, the only truth he had left to share that Mycroft didn't already know.

"Say it again," he demanded, his arms tightening around Greg, his body completely still.

"I love you, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft drew back slightly, but left his arms around Greg's shoulders, to examine his face. He stared intently at Greg for long moments, assessing and processing what he found there. And then he leaned forwards, slowly, as if making sure the mirage wouldn't turn to dust and sand. Greg waited, and when Mycroft's lips were an inch away, Greg surged forwards, claiming his lips with his own.

A silent gasp escaped Mycroft at the suddeness of the contact, and he froze. But when Greg didn't crumble or disappear, he surged forwards as well, pressing their lips together in a desperate attempt to convey his thoughts and feelings. The umbrella fell to the side, forgotten completely as the two shared their first kiss. The rain sprinkled down upon them from above, only succeeding in pushing them even closer together. The kiss was desperation and hope, it was fear and love. It was two wonderful, beautiful forces of nature colliding in a kiss.

" _Ugh_ , gross."

The two pulled apart and turned to look at Sherlock, holding the discarded umbrella and looking absolutely disgusted.

"Honestly, I didn't need to see that, like, ever." He shuddered lightly, flouncing away with his coat swirling behind him. He took the umbrella, leaving the duo alone once again. The rain continued to pour down onto them, faster than before; Mycroft and Greg both turned to look at each other.

Greg smiled and hugged Mycroft close. They had some heavy conversations awaiting them in the future, some issues to work out on both sides. But Greg knew that no matter what, they would always find comfort in each other.

 **AN/ That's the end of this story, folks. Until next time,**


End file.
